


Bled and Bound

by tawg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: spn-gabriel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg/pseuds/tawg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a hunt, John tries to bind a Trickster God to do his bidding. This is not the best decision he's ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bled and Bound

The Trickster considers himself very, very lucky. For one thing, the hunter that has him bound and on his knees honestly doesn’t know what he’s caught. For another thing, the same hunter was a little sloppy with his handwriting, and the Enochian symbols on the rope aren’t binding. In fact, they kind of tickle. But, he has been a Trickster for a long, long time. And he’s not going to break out of character just because someone seven years ago and three states over came up with the idea of selling rope that can bind a god.

Oh dear, not even close.

A rough hand threads through his hair, and grabs it hard, yanking his head back so he has to look up into that weary, bearded face. If a pagan god of mischief and destruction can keep himself groomed, is it really beyond the capacity of a hunter to do the same? A dirty thumb rests just below his eyebrow, pressing up and pulling his eyelid out of the way. He’s getting his eyes checked.

“You want to see my teeth, too?” the Trickster asks. “I bet you can’t tell my age from them.” He gives the hunter a charming grin that garners no attention at all until his eyes have been examined from every angle.

Then the hunter drops down into a crouch in from of him. “I’m looking for something,” he says.

“You want to play ‘warmer and colder’ until you find it?”

“I’m looking for a supernatural son of a bitch. One with yellow eyes.” The Trickster actually has to think about that, tilting his head to one side and running through all of the demons he knows, just to start with. It’s hard, of course, both because he’s come across so many and because – in all honesty – who looks at the physical manifestations these days? Black, obviously. White, he knows of one or two. Red is even coming into vogue for the war mongers. But yellow...

“Wait, you think my eyes are yellow? Bucko, you’re looking at a golden brown.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s like confusing a ginger nut with a strawberry blonde. You’ve got no sense of delicacy at- _urk!_ ” His words are cut off as the hunter yanks him forward by one of the ropes, until they’re nose to nose.

“Yellow eyes,” he repeats. There’s a subtle shift, and the Trickster glances down to see a wooden stake in the hunters hands, and he has a bad feeling about where this will go.

“Not enough,” he replies. “You know how many things have yellow eyes out there?”

“Yup,” the hunter replies. “A lot. This one kills women. Pins them to ceilings, burns them.”

The Trickster thinks. He knows this pattern. He’s heard voices singing of it. “I don’t know of anything that sets out to kill people like that.”

The hunter stares at him for a long time. “Does that mean you know of something that kills people like that by accident?”

The Trickster has to admit, this guy is pretty good. “It’s not the women,” he says. “They’re just... it’s like a binding spell.” The Trickster looks into the hunter’s eyes, and he sees her, the woman with blonde hair and a white night dress. With two children and sandwiches with the crusts cut off and she would never let him win a fight when he was wrong but he still loved her so, so much.

“Binding,” the hunter repeats.

“It sounds like a blood binding. A pretty crude one at that. Take control of someone? Just put your own blood in and take someone they’re already bound to out of the picture. It’s sloppy, and it doesn’t always work, and it’s hell on the furniture, but...” He trails off. The hunter is staring at something not quite nearby. Across his brain is burning one word. _Sam_.

The Trickster takes the moment of distraction to twist his arm inside the bindings. The tickling is getting distracting, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to get stabbed if he starts giggling at a meaningful moment like this. But the motion doesn’t go unnoticed, and he gets a stake pressed right up under his pretty little jaw.

“You’re a god,” the hunter says.

“Well done,” he replies. “You can strike that one off your road trip bingo card.”

“It’d be pretty handy having a god help find this bastard.”

The Trickster stays quiet.

The hunter presses the stake a little more firmly to the Trickster’s neck. “I wonder if I can blood bind you,” he muses. “I can bind you with rope. I can bind you by summoning. I’ve even read that I can bind you with your promise.”

“You have to buy me a promise ring for the last one,” the Trickster interjects. “And I need real diamond, I’m not some cheap – _urk!_ ”

With one hand still holding the stake, the hunter pulls out a silver knife, and cuts away at the material at the Trickster’s shoulder. He carves a symbol into the flesh and the Trickster doesn’t even bother pretending to wince. It’s a disgusting mash of Enochian and Aramaic, and while he’s sure that the hunter probably thinks it translates to something all powerful and binding, it’s really a colloquial word for a kind of flatbread wrapped around dates and cinnamon. The Trickster hasn’t been able to find anyone who makes those for _centuries_.

He watches idly as the hunter carves a corresponding symbol into his left hand. It looks a bit like the word ‘elephant’, but backwards. Honestly, if good little gods like him weren’t so considerate in playing along, hunters would just plain die of embarrassment.

Then the hunter slams the two wounds together, and the Trickster lets his head fall back, a long moan escaping his lips. The hunter’s fingers dig into his shoulders and he can feel the burn there, heat so strong that skin should be crackling and peeling. It’s glowing white, he can feel it, and for once he can’t be bothered holding it in. With his head thrown back and his eyes closed to shut out everything but the feel of blood meeting blood, he parts his lips, and begins to chant.

The hunter – John, he knows now, John Winchester - tries to pull back, but the ropes are untying themselves and sliding free, and the Trickster grabs John’s wrist, holding his hand in place even as he leans forwards, knocking the hunter off his haunches and into his ass, even as he crawls over him and stares down, chanting and burning and his eyes, he knows his eyes are glowing. Let the hunter see if they look yellow _now_.

“You wanted to be bound,” he says in a low, smooth voice when they’re nose to nose, straddling John’s hips. He lets one corner of his mouth curl up. “Don’t tell me you didn’t do your homework.”

He presses their mouths together. At first it’s just a seal of lips, but then he shifts, and then their wounds burn and John’s mouth opens to allow a little noise of pain to escape. One that the Trickster greedily swallows up to keep inside him. It’s a kiss, then. With lips and teeth and grunts of breath and tongue. With the Trickster pressing and plundering and drinking the hunter up whole and John being swept along, being carried off by the strange, holy blood flowing into his body.

It should feel like a stain, the Trickster thinks, allowing some common, human blood into his body. But it doesn’t. Blood isn’t just... it carries a person. John Winchester, and all of his memories and all that his is, flowing into that hole shaped like the word for a flatbread, and being carried throughout the Trickster’s body. And into the hunter, into him goes the power and the age and some, only some of the cunning.

They trade breaths and swallow each other’s gasps, and when the Trickster can remember to he chants, chants to John’s soul and courts it, seduces little tiny scraps of it away that he takes into himself, holds them close and tender and gentle until they’re burned up by his own incredible heat, until the ashes of these strips of soul are swept away, pumped around his body, dead little fingerprints that will always lead him back, right back to wherever John Winchester is. Binding his bloodline to the Trickster and, yes, he can taste something in there. Something empty and aching and waiting to be filled. A hole that is a familiar shape, and sends a pang of yearning through him. Of course, he thinks. Of course.

When he finally pulls his face away, their clothes are damp with sweat. Their hand and shoulder are glued together with congealed, crackling blood. John Winchester is lying with his head lolled back, dazed and panting, and looking thoroughly debauched. The Trickster peels them apart, skin away from sticky skin, jeans away from jeans. He crouches over the hunter on all fours, the skin of his shoulder already healing and smoothing away, and John stares at that fresh skin, at the blood smeared over it.

“You don’t _bind_ a god,” the Trickster says, allowing a little scorn to enter his voice. He grabs John by the jaw, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your faith binds you.”

And then he smirks down at that face as it pulls it all together, as he realises what he’s done. The Trickster allows his smirk to split open into a satisfied grin. And then he snaps his fingers, and is gone.


End file.
